The Muscle Resting Frustration

"Wake up," said d this morning at 7.30.
"Unnnnnff..." I said.
"You wanted to go to the gym, right?"
"Urrg...ummunufff..." I said, sticking a hand in the air, and shushing her.
"It's 7.30," she said. "Did you turn off the alarm?"
"Nummnnn," I grunted, rubbing my bearded face against the pillow in the closest I could get to a negative.
"What time did you set the alarm for honey?" she asked.
"Eiiiighnnfff" I explained.
"Oops," she said.

"Morning," she said.
"Urggg....lllmumf..." I agreed.

Time passed.
It does that. Time's a bastard for a good bit of passing...

"Want some oatmeal?" she asked.
"Annnnd we're up..." I said, having found my tongue and unglued it from whichever dark and moderately soggy recesses of my mouth it had occupied for the last handful of hours.
"Morning," she said again.
I turned off the alarm, and padded into the office with a kind of Mammy-walk which will be familiar to many overweight readers. Flung some gym-worthy clothes on my body. Went downstairs, noticing a lie of Wendy's.

Yesterday, after my mental half-hour in the gym, she'd told me I'd feel different after an hour. This, as it turned out, was a lie.
I felt different after a day.

Not better, you understand. Just different. My arms felt like they had their own specific gravity fields, and my thighs roared with burning agony as I forced them down the stairs. All in all, it was kind of them not to give out altogether and hurtle me to my snapped-neck doom, but they clearly weren't happy. I ignored them, got into my trainers.

"MmmmOK," I said. "Mmmgonna go work out..."
"Wait," said d. "Aren't you supposed to be leaving a gap between sessions?"

I mulled this over. I knew, deep in the sneaky recesses of my mind, that that was what Wendy had prescribed. Mental exercise, then bog-all for a day, to "not let the muscles get used to the exercise level," then back to the same mentalness the following day. But I wanted to doooo something....
I sighed, texted Wendy - who, as it turned out, was just about to get all fired up with cardio boosting, and then put her own wife, Ria, through a godawful painful exercise regime, and double-checked with her.

"Yep," she confirmed. "Buggerall today, and back to the all-out burning exercise tomorrow."
"Can I bike?" I begged.
"No!"
"A nice long walk? Not like that's high-impact..." I almost sulked.
"Won't do any good," she said, dismissing the idea. "Rest up today, then go like mad tomorrow".

"Arse..." I texted her.
"Woohoo! Cardio Burn! Feel so aliiiiiiive!!" she text-yelled.
"Little bit of me's hating you right now," I mutered darkly. She didn't care...

So that's been my day - buggerall in the way of exercise. Oatmeal for breakfast, some deeply unwise chicken and mushroom pastry thing from Gregg's for lunch (d popped out while I was chained to my desk and my deadline). Fantastic Lancashire Hotpot for dinner (no horse included, incidentally; all home made). Hefty...ish main meal, and the lunch was probably greasier than was advisable, but tomorrow...tomorrow's gonna hurt like a sonofabitch again.

Woo...
Hoo...

This next week is going to be a weird one though - Go away on Monday as semi-usual, but don't come back the same night. Don't come back till Wednesday in fact - staying a couple of nights at my mate Sally-Anne's, and have a conference to stay awake through.

Hmm...Sally-Anne's got a gym. Maybe I could go a bit mental there....